Gryrne didn’t want to go yet. They’d been in the outpost, as it was known though it was a sizeable town, for less than three full days but Brin was already insisting they leave. The younger folk, in the outpost for the first time in their lives, tried to persuade Brin to allow them to stay just one more day, but Brin was firm.

Gryrne had heard that most parties from the village stayed at least a 5-day,[1] and had expected to return to the market once more before they departed, but that morning Brin had woken the group and told them to pack their things. In their tiredness most had begun packing before it occurred to them to wonder at the haste of it all.

The lodging where they stayed was situated above a small, smoke-filled tavern that seemed to absorb a good deal of the passing traffic. Apparently it was a favoured location for people from far afield who possessed little hard currency, and a great many people were crammed into the available space. Their group slept on the floor wrapped in the same sewn animal hides they had used to sleep in on the trip down, belongings piled in the centre as Brin had insisted.

Gryrne packed faster than the others and hoisted his pack onto his back, then headed down to the tavern lounge, leaving behind the yawning, stretching members of his group. He was heading down the steps when he heard Brin’s voice coming from a table where he was talking to another veteran member of the group. The table was wedged against the wall that made up the side of the steps at such an angle that he couldn’t see Gryrne despite being so close. Even at this time of the morning the room was smoky from the fire in the corner and the fumes of customers’ tobacco, and Brin probably thought their voices were inaudible amidst the background chatter.

“I’m telling you, I’ve never seen it like this. We should have left yesterday,” said the other man, whose name Gryrne didn’t really know. He was from another Family in the village.

“And I told you leaving here at night was a foolish idea. They say there’s bandits on the roads now, and not just the chancers we’re used to.”

Gryrne was surprised at the irritation in both men’s voices. There had been no sign back in the sleeping area of the tension that now filled their words, not this morning nor last night.

Brin had his sword, didn’t he? The thing was famous throughout the village, regardless of family affiliation. Though the faded, worn gems on its hilt no longer had their ancient splendour, the blade remained sharp and vital. It was why Brin led the expeditions – there had never been a time on his watch when a single group had encountered any serious trouble. Gryrne struggled to imagine anyone who would dare to go up against him.

“Those people who were following you in the market…” continued Brin’s companion, “…you’re sure that was them last night?”

Gryrne’s head span. What people? He’d seen nobody following them. He hadn’t noticed anything suspicious at all. What were they talking about?

“Their cart moved on out of here at first light, but they’ve left at least one of them behind. The guy with the scars,” Brin said.

Gryrne swept his eyes across the smoky room in search of whoever Brin was referring to, and spotted a broad-shouldered, dark-clothed man hunched over an early-morning glass at the bar. His face was heavily cratered, the after effects of some pox, and an ill-trimmed black beard hid much of his features. On the counter besides him lay a high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything except the drink in front of him.

“Well, we’re leaving now. I swear, something dark has come over this place; I’ve never felt such distrust. It was like they didn’t want to trade with us,” said the man; Eselwol, Gryrne now recalled.

Eselwol stood abruptly as he finished speaking, and Gryrne almost fell down the rest of the stairs in an effort to make it seem as if he had just arrived. Brin acknowledged his arrival with a distracted nod.

It took a while for the rest of the group to gather in the common area. Tamarla, one of the last, came sweeping down the stairs with a clicking of her tongue and a glass of cha she must have swiped from somewhere. She raised it with a wink to Gryrne when she saw him, then downed the lot. Probably not cha, then. He wondered where she’d found it.

He felt his cheeks warm. Tamarla had been acting differently towards him since Brin had chosen the both of them for the trip to the market the day before, making jokes and teasing him in ways that made him feel disconcerted and rather uncomfortable. Gryrne didn’t consider himself naïve when it came to the opposite sex, but Tamarla wasn’t just a girl[2], but directly in line for the seat of one of the Five Families. There was a whole stack of problems and dangers in getting involved with someone like that, especially the danger of seeing an implication where there was none.

Tamarla came up and stood next to him as the group made their preparations to leave.

“Think getting down here early will please the bonfire, do you?” she whispered, deliberately mistaking Brin’s pseudonym. “Hoping he’ll let you hold his bag a little longer?”

She flashed him a brief smile to show her taunts were meant at least partly in jest, but Gryrne was not sure he thought they were funny. In all honesty, he was having difficulty working out what he thought, so he focused upon Brin’s final address to everyone before they gathered their packs and headed out.

As he stepped past the bar he realised the chair where the pox-marked man had sat was empty. He wondered where he’d gone.

[1] The village divided its weeks into 5

[2] Or woman, he supposed. This trip was meant to mark their coming into adulthood.